


It's Not A Damned Bilgesnipe!

by Kryptaria



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Guest starring the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents from Thor, Other, Spontaneous inebriated paleontology, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1799902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asgardian marriage customs aren't built for people with a human lifespan. To encourage Thor to get things moving, Tony arranges a preemptive bachelor party, because he's a nice guy like that. Really.</p><p>Well, okay. Pepper's away in France, and Tony just wants an excuse to party with the guys. Thor's relationship with Dr. Foster seems as good an excuse as anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not A Damned Bilgesnipe!

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on a news story posted to the New Zealand Herald, in which a bachelor party uncovered a mammoth skeleton.
> 
> No, really. It's here: http://www.nzherald.co.nz/world/news/article.cfm?c_id=2&objectid=11275746
> 
> Infinite thanks to writehopper and scriptrixlatinae for the really, really, _really_ late night beta. This was above and beyond the call of duty, ladies!
> 
> ~~~

“Explain to me again why we’re doing this?” Steve asks for about the twelfth time.

“Old Earth tradition,” Tony says. He’s given up on trying to actually explain his reasoning, mostly because he started out using fuzzy logic that just got fuzzier as preparation for the night got underway. It’s probably a mistake, starting on the booze ahead of time, but he’d wanted to get his drinking out of the way now, before Thor showed up with Asgardian mead, Asgardian whiskey, or Asgardian _anything_. Tony had gone that route once, and it had taken twelve weeks and a course of antibiotics for the piercing to heal properly.

“Brooklyn’s a part of Earth,” Steve says in his driest voice.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend to wrangle?”

“He’s _not_ —” is as far as Steve gets, looking away, though not before Tony catches his face going pink.

Everyone suspects that Steve and Bucky are all over each other after lights out. Maybe the team accepted the “just sharing a bed” excuse back when the Robo-assassin had been having post-hypnotic nightmares, but Bucky’s been incident-free for six months. Any nighttime comfort they’re sharing is definitely of the sweaty horizontal kind.

Tony smirks and brandishes a crystal decanter at Steve. “Scotch? No, wait. This stuff won’t even give you a buzz. Not wasting the good stuff on a man who can’t appreciate it.”

But Tony doesn’t turn away fast enough, and Steve hits him with a solid puppy-dog-eyes to the chest. Grimacing, Tony pours a second glass and slides it across the bar.

“Kidding, kidding!” he lies in a hearty voice that he usually reserves for press conferences. He holds up his glass, and when Steve does the same, Tony clinks their glasses together. “Mazel tov.”

“Uh, Thor’s not even around. Why are you congratulating me?” There’s that frown again, sweet and puzzled, the one that the fangirls — and not a few fanboys — love to see. Thankfully Bucky’s not around, because he always goes for a weapon when he sees that frown.

“Yeah, but maybe he’ll make it a double wedding.”

It’s not until they’ve both downed their drinks that Tony’s words really hit home. Steve’s eyes go wide, his cheeks go pink, and what Tony wouldn’t do for Natasha’s itchy shutter-finger right about now. A blushing Captain America would double her Instagram numbers overnight.

“Tony —”

“Tony!” Thor booms, and thank all the gods — no, really, _all of them_ — that he’s not alone. He’s got Volstagg, Hogun, and the weaselly blond with him. And they’re all carrying kegs.

“Hey, guys!” Tony shouts, slipping out from behind the bar. Steve joins him as they go to greet the Asgardian delegation. “Glad you made it. And good job on the booze. You get old Heimdall to arrange the portal for us?”

“Aye, I did,” Thor says, giving Tony a clap on the shoulder that rattles him from teeth to toes despite the fact that he’s in his latest and greatest Iron Man suit. “He is most familiar with New Mexico.”

“New Mexico?” Steve asks.

“Nostalgic reasons,” Tony explains, giving Steve a _look_. “You know. ’Cause bachelor parties always work best when they’re...”

He trails off significantly, thinking that Steve Rogers might be more than a little naive, but Captain America’s probably the finest tactician they have. It takes him about three seconds to put together _bachelor party_ and _Asgardians_ and realize that nowhere in that equation is there room for New York City. And ninety percent of New Mexico is populated only by scorpions and coyotes who’ll take one look at their delegation and hightail it out at top speed.

Steve’s grin flashes to life, blinding in its sincerity. “When they’re in New Mexico!” he declares.

Tony manages not to facepalm through sheer willpower alone. Well, that and because he’s done that with the gloves on before, and it hurts. Gave himself a black eye once, right before a press conference, and Pepper had gone through about half a compact of concealer to hide it.

“When the bachelor and bachelorette _met_ in New Mexico, yes. Otherwise, New Mexico would have an industry to speak of beyond aliens and...” He falters, because he cannot for the life of him figure out what else people do in New Mexico.

“And science!” Thor declares.

“I’ll drink to that,” Tony says approvingly, and heads back behind the bar. One more whiskey can’t hurt.

 

~~~

 

“I don’t think we should be sneaking out like this,” Sam whispers, throwing a guilty look back at the party. Why he’s whispering, he has no idea. It’s not like anyone can hear anything over the deafening music.

“Plausible deniability,” Clint explains. “S.H.I.E.L.D. may be gone, but your girlfriend’s not.”

Sam winces. He really hadn’t wanted to think about Natasha’s impression of all this. Their relationship is just starting to get onto solid ground after a four-month hiatus to find the Winter Soldier and help with his deprogramming. Natasha had been all for recovering Bucky, but Sam still felt obliged to make it up to her.

“Okay, yeah. Good plan,” Sam agrees, though not without a suspicious look at Clint. “What _else_ do you want, Barton?”

“Me?”

It’s hard to make out details in the fuzzy light glowing through the tent walls, but Sam’s always had excellent eyesight, and he doesn’t fall for Barton’s innocent look. Not for one damn second.

“Yeah, you,” Sam says, resisting the urge to prod the marksman in the chest. Clint may be better with ranged weapons, but he’s just as deadly up-close, and Sam, in the end, is a glorified flying field medic. “Natasha’s told me stories about you.”

“She wouldn’t tell —”

“Budapest.”

_“She didn’t!”_

Sam smirks and crosses his arms. The straps for his wings cut in under his arms, but he hadn’t been stupid enough to agree to a Stark-arranged Asgardian bachelor party on the other side of the States without a built-in Plan B. “ _And_ Volgograd.”

“Aww, it was just the once,” Clint complains.

“Twice woulda gotten you on _another_ watchlist. So, spill.”

“I want to try out your wings.”

Sam waits. “And?” he finally asks.

“And what? Wings, Sam. You have ’em. I want ’em,” Clint says, voice dripping with sincerity. “Just the once. I mean, they’ll interfere with my draw —”

“You waited until _now_ to ask? Why not just ask me up to the tower roof? Or are you suddenly scared of jumping off buildings?”

“Nah. I didn’t want Nat to think I was hitting on you.”

“Are you?”

“No!”

“Then we’re all good.” Sam casts a suspicious eye at the tent, where the Asgardians are apparently trying to sing along with Pantera’s _Cowboys from Hell._ It isn’t going very well for anyone involved.

Clint beams at Sam and says, “Besides, if you let me try them now, we don’t have to go inside for Asgardian karaoke.”

“You... Yeah, you’ve got a point,” Sam says, though he doesn’t entirely trust Clint as far as he can throw him. And that’s pretty damn far, factoring in the height and speed he can achieve with his wings. “Tell you what. Let’s get to Albuquerque, and you can try ’em there.”

“Why not here?”

“’Cause I’m not letting you fly off with my wings and leave me grounded to babysit this disaster waiting to happen.”

“Would I do that?”

“For my wings? Yeah, Barton. In a heartbeat,” Sam says, reaching behind his back to open the emergency pack tucked under his wings, at the small of his back. The pack’s been stripped down to just a few medical supplies and a carrying harness. He tosses the harness at Barton and says, “Put that on.”

“Why?”

“So I won’t drop you by accident.”

Clint sorts out the straps, casting suspicious glances Sam’s way. He pulls the harness up his legs, closes the straps over his shoulders, then tightens everything. “You wouldn’t do that to me. Would you?”

“Nope. Not by accident,” Sam promises. “Only on purpose.”

 

~~~

 

“I’d feel better if Natasha were here.”

Steve resists the urge to put his arm around Bucky’s shoulders because they’re surrounded by people, and not just the team. Sure, Dr. Banner, Clint, Sam, and Tony are present, but so are a handful of Asgardians, Lt. Colonel Rhodes, Dr. Selvik, and two former S.H.I.E.L.D. officers who were apparently there to witness the epic fight between Thor, Sif, the Warriors Three, and Loki’s metal death-robot.

“So would I,” Steve admits. Natasha’s brave and fierce and possesses the sort of common sense that can even stand up to... well, to this.

 _This_ , apparently, is a bachelor party, only not in any sense Steve can imagine. For one thing, the bachelor in question isn’t getting married, at least as far as anyone knows. He’s officially courting Dr. Jane Foster, though, and after Tony had weighed traditional Asgardian romance against expected human lifespan, the numbers had come to a pretty grim conclusion. Thus, a bachelor party, apparently in hopes of moving things along.

But _this_ is also a bachelor party _in the middle of the New Mexico desert_. And sadly, Steve thinks that’s the most logical decision Tony’s made, which is why Steve threw his weight behind the plan, once he caught up.

Tony had even done his best to make them comfortable. He’d paid a company probably stupid amounts of money to set up a massive tent with lights, dining tables, a dance floor, and a sound system currently blasting what Tony assured the Asgardians was traditional Earth bachelor party music. Steve had surreptitiously used his satellite phone to look it up, and he was positive Metallica wasn’t usually played at bachelor parties. Then again, most bachelor parties also had strippers, so he was willing to concede on the music front. Innocent women didn’t need to be involved in this.

Because _this_ has suddenly turned from a bachelor party into a fire-eating contest, because it turns out Thor’s lightning can ignite Asgardian alcohol into blinding blue fireballs. Steve’s got reflexes enhanced by super-soldier serum, but Bucky’s got his own tricks, and he responds first, tackling Steve off his chair and out _through_ the tent wall, into the pitch black night.

A deafening roar rises up from the tent, and the landscape flashes actinic white as Thor calls down more lightning. The first lightning bolt had seared a hole through the tent roof.

The second bolt lights the tent on fire, bringing another roar of approval from the Asgardians.

Steve catches sight of Lt. Colonel Rhodes, in the War Machine armor, rushing Dr. Selvig to safety. They exit through one of the tent’s doorways, where Rhodes says, “Hang on, doc!” And then they’re gone, surging up into the sky to the sound of blasting repulsors and Dr. Selvig’s shouted, _“Whee!”_

Steve and Bucky just stare — gape, really — as the lights of War Machine’s suit fade off into the distance. There’s another cheer from the tent as Metallica switches to the much more familiar strains of AC/DC’s _Thunderstruck_. Thor apparently takes it to heart, because the thunder rolls through the skies.

And then, the rain starts.

“This... is really happening,” Bucky shouts, shielding his eyes from the downpour.

Steve starts to nod, but something cracks into his skull with the force of a low-velocity bullet. He’s got super-soldier reflexes and instincts to match, and he’s got his shield up, protecting himself and Bucky, before he can fully process.

The rain is accompanied by hail.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says, rubbing at his head. The bruise is already healing, though the lump on his skull still hurts.

Bucky’s hand pushes Steve’s aside. “Should we go in and rescue the other civilians?”

Steve does a quick head count. He’d be tempted to go back for Sam, who is really too good a human being to be caught in Tony’s madness, but Sam’s got a healthy sense of self-preservation. He’s probably already escaped out the other side of the tent — that or he’s hiding under a table.

“No more civilians. Besides, Dr. Banner —”

The doctor in question is no more. In his place, the Hulk lets out a massive roar. And God help them all, Steve can hear one word in that roar: _“Another!”_

“Dr. Banner,” he whispers, looking at Bucky in quiet horror, “is apparently drinking.”

Bucky nods, and the brisk motion is pure Winter Soldier. “Retreat.”

“On your six,” Steve agrees, taking Bucky’s metal left hand in his right.

Together, they flee before the party can really get out of hand.

 

~~~

 

After five years with S.H.I.E.L.D. and six months with StarkIndustries, Ira Johansen is pretty certain nothing can faze him anymore. In fact, he’d describe himself as pretty damned unshakable — both him and Glen Morales, his long-time partner — not in _that_ way, mostly because Glen’s girlfriend used to teach krav maga for Mossad.

But this? This is easily worth a 0.5 on the Richter Scale of shaking. Maybe even a 1.0.

Because _this_ is four Asgardians weaving drunkenly around the remains of what had once been a very nice tent, supposedly searching for Iron Man, not realizing that he's snoring peacefully behind the rock where Ira and Glen were sitting. Periodically, one of the Asgardians would call out, _“Man of Iron!”_ in a voice that would wake the dead. Since Stark's unconscious, not dead, it doesn’t work.

“Another hot wing?” Glen offers, holding out their only fork. They’d be using their hands, but they ran out of napkins a while ago. Besides, the sauce is hot enough that it stings like fire through the cuts on their hands — wounds sustained during the Great Tent Collapse several hours earlier.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Ira says agreeably, and stabs into the only catering tray that survived the night. Wisely, Stark ordered boneless wings, probably figuring that people would get too drunk to notice little bones. And face it — nobody wants a helpful Asgardian doing the Heimlich Maneuver.

Glen squints in the direction of the rising sun. “When do you think this party’s supposed to be over?”

“Bachelor parties traditionally end when the bachelor passes out or gets free of the stripper’s handcuffs. And before you ask, yes, I’m carrying handcuffs, and no, I’m not stripping for Thor,” Ira adds in a very final tone. There are some lines not meant to be crossed, and that scenario crosses at least twelve of them. Besides, he’s been trying to get up the courage to ask Director Hill on a date for the last couple of years. The last thing he needs is for rumors to reach her adorable ears.

“Shit. We could be here for days,” Glen complains.

“Actually, we can —”

_“Bilgesnipe!”_

The shout is meaningless, but when an Asgardian blasts out something like that, certain reactions are purely instinctive. Glen and Ira dive for cover between the rock and Iron Man. The tray of hot wings rocks, teeters, and slides — backwards, unfortunately, and Glen knocks it off its trajectory before it can cover Ira with hellfire buffalo sauce. Instead, the wings pelt Iron Man, coating his chest and facemask, filling the air with eye-watering fumes.

Ira and Glen have their guns out, sweeping the area. “Clear?” Ira asks uncertainly, seeing no threats, other than the smoke plumes from the dead tent.

“Clear as this mess gets,” Glen agrees just as uncertainly, and they holster their weapons as they get to their feet.

They turn back to the Asgardians, who are...

Digging?

Ira blinks a couple of times. Yes, they’re digging.

Glen tips his head thoughtfully. “Uh.”

“Area 51,” Ira says, wondering what the hell the Asgardians can be looking for under the New Mexico sand. Six years ago, he would’ve laughed about UFOs. Now, he knows better. Handing the Asgardians a UFO seems like a bad idea. A _very_ bad idea.

Glen looks at Ira, mouth hanging open in horror. “White Sands.”

“Oh, shit.” Because yeah, that’s a _much_ worse idea, the thought of handing the Asgardians a _nuke_.

A full-body shudder goes through Glen before he squares his shoulders and raises his chin. “We’ve got to stop them.”

And this is the difference between an ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and a lesser agent from some meaningless government bureaucracy. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents go where smarter agents would fear to tread. “Agreed,” Ira says. “After you.”

Glen smiles like a shark. “No, after you.”

“I insist, friend. After you.”

 

~~~

 

When Tony opens his eyes, the world is awash in red.

No, not red. Orange.

He lifts his hand and waves it in front of his visor, but there’s no billowing smoke. The external temperature reads high for New York, but not “holy shit the world’s on fire” high. He’s danced that dance before, thanks, and never again.

“JARVIS?”

“Good morning, sir. I hope your rest was... restful,” JARVIS answers.

“Oh, that’s weak, even for you.”

“Apologies, sir. Most of my processing power has been diverted at Ms. Potts’ orders.”

Tony blinked. The world was still orange, for no apparent reason. “Pepper? Pepper’s subverting you? Pepper’s in France.”

“Yes, sir. However, Ms. Potts and Lt. Colonel Rhodes are —”

“Rhodey? Where’s Rhodey?” Tony asks, vaguely remembering seeing War Machine recently. Last night, in fact. Though last night was a little fuzzy. But hey, at least he’s still in his armor, which meant he hadn’t gotten so spectacularly drunk as to accidentally sleep around on Pepper. The armor really was good for more than just publicity and blowing shit up, after all.

“Lt. Colonel Rhodes brought Dr. Selvig to safety, sir. I am currently attempting to prevent the army from storming the area to contain the Asgardian threat.”

“Asgardian threat? Loki?” Tony asks, sitting up so fast that his body creaks inside the suit. He’s not twenty after all, and _whoa,_ that’s an incredible hangover he has. Even the orange world is swimming in front of him —

Or it’s goop stuck to his visor? Baffled, he lifts his hand, turns the palm towards his visor, and triggers a blast at three percent power, and the world goes white.

 

~~~

 

“So, let’s not do that again,” Bruce says, using one hand to help Tony to sit up. The other hand is firmly locked around the scorched remains of a ripstop plastic tent that he’d fashioned into a makeshift kilt.

“I shot my orange face,” comes Tony’s answer through his external speakers.

Bruce ignores that. He’s learned to ignore most of what Tony says. “Why are you covered in buffalo wing sauce?”

“That’s irrelevant. What are you wearing?”

Bruce bites back a sigh. “That’s irrelevant,” he fires back. “I need you to get up.”

“I’m up.”

“No, you’re actually trying to cuddle with my leg. If you don’t stop, I’m going to tell JARVIS to tell Pepper, and she’ll leave you. Again.”

With a dramatic huff, Tony falls the other way, fortunately hitting a rock that’s also covered with wing sauce. At least they match, Bruce thinks. Besides, unlike Bruce, the rock is kind enough to not protest when Tony uses it to climb to his feet.

“I am —”

Tony wheels around, overbalances, and nearly crashes down. He fires off his repulsors to catch his balance, and Bruce has to leap out of the way and count ten deep breaths before he’s certain the big guy, who’s apparently sleeping off a drunken stupor, isn’t going to come out and play again.

“I am,” Tony declares with the slow precision of someone who’s still too drunk to be properly hung over. “I am... _Iron Man!_ ”

“Yep. And Iron Man needs to go wrangle the Asgardians, who are —”

_“Thor!”_

Bruce flinches from the high-decibel shout through Tony’s external speakers. Then he flinches again as Thor booms out, _“Man of Iron! You are awake!”_

But that’s good enough for Bruce’s purposes. He just needs Tony to keep the Asgardians out of the way for a little while. Thor bounds over to Tony, looking for all the world like a happy golden retriever. Volstagg is right on his heels. More sensibly, Hogun and Fandral are standing at the impromptu digsite they’d begun.

“You are certain we cannot continue excavation, Doctor?” Hogun asks.

“I’m not an expert,” Bruce admits, but “I’m fairly sure that’s a ten thousand year old stegomastodon.”

“It does not _entirely_ look like a bilgesnipe,” Fandral says, sounding disappointed. “I had hoped this would be more proof of the links between our worlds.”

Bruce has no idea what a bilgesnipe is. And despite a twinge of curiosity, he also has better sense than to ask. “Why don’t you two help the others with Tony? He’s a little disoriented, and covered in buffalo win—” He cuts off, vaguely remembering having an argument last night over whether or not buffalos had wings. “Er, sauce.”

Hogun nods briskly. “Very well.”

“Oh, uh,” Bruce says, embarrassed. “Before you go, can I borrow your pants, one of you? I’m pretty sure this fire is going to attract attention, and someone needs to explain, just in case the National Guard shows up before Ms. Potts can send the cavalry.”

“Of course, friend Doctor!” Fandral says, and Hogun nods. Helpfully both men drop their pants on the spot.

 

~~~

 

“How is this my life?” Pepper asks, throwing back a very conservative swig of scotch. At least, she thinks it’s conservative. She doesn’t drink scotch. She doesn’t even _like_ scotch. But in an emergency, one takes what one can find, and right now, all she can find is scotch.

“I’ve got the Air National Guard on three,” Maria says from the desk in the living room of the hotel suite. “I’ve gone over their heads to stop them from mobilizing a flight of F-16s.”

“Jane’s trying to get through to Heimdall to collect the Asgardians,” Natasha says, and even over speakerphone, her voice is steady. These two women are Pepper’s rock and anchor, her islands of calm in a sea of chaos.

“Thank God. Or gods. Whatever,” Pepper says. “Can I take aspirin with scotch? There are no drug interactions, are there?”

Seconds later, Maria appears from the living room. She’s got her suit jacket off, her gun holstered at her hip, and her earpiece in place. She’s also holding a bottle of water. She offers it and two aspirin, saying, “It’s okay, Ms. Potts. We’ve got it covered.”

“Please, call me Pepper.” She takes the aspirin and chases them down with two healthy swallows of water. The cold hits her throat, making her cough, after the slow burn of the scotch.

Maria ignores the request — really, paramilitary traditions are just ingrained in her — and goes back to the living room, saying, “I don’t care, General. You keep those planes grounded, or we’ll shoot them out of the sky.”

“Pepper?” Natasha asks. “Are you there?”

“I’m here.” Pepper puts down the water bottle, casts an eye at the living room, then surreptitiously finishes the scotch. Then she picks up the phone and switches off speaker. “Any progress?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as the boys are collected. Apparently Rhodey and Erik Selvig are safely at Luke Air Force Base, and Clint and Sam are at a Holiday Inn in Albuquerque.”

“That’s —” Pepper says, before a spike of panic hits. “What about Bruce? Dr. Banner —”

“He’s fine, Pepper,” Natasha says reassuringly. “He had an incident, but JARVIS assures me everything’s under control.”

“JARVIS should be assuring _me_ of that.”

“You know how Tony gets when he knows he’s in trouble.”

Pepper huffs, wondering if there was another miniature bottle of scotch in the luggage. Tony had been the last one to use the suitcase, so there might well be. He’s a packrat when it comes to liquor. “Tony _is_ in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.”

“I’m positive he knows that.”

“What about Steve and Bucky? Really, Bucky’s not ready to handle any sort of... mental trauma.”

“I’m positive Steve wouldn’t let anything happen to him. You just need to stay focused on your conference. I’m flying back to Manhattan in two hours. I’ll take care of the boys,” Natasha says, and there’s an awful sense of finality to her words.

“Okay.” Pepper lets out a breath. “Okay. Thank you, Natasha. I appreciate this.”

“We won’t let it happen again. If you can’t be there, I’ll be there to watch them.”

“That or we can put them in prison.”

Natasha laughs. “There’s a good thought. Oh, and before you hang up, what did you want done with the mastodon?”

“The —” Pepper blinks. “The what?”

“After they got drunk, the boys dug up a mastodon. From what JARVIS says, it’s a very nice one. A complete skeleton. And since Tony’s in trouble...”

“Oh, God, he’ll try to give it to me as a present. Natasha, I don’t want a mastodon. I saw _Jurassic Park_. That way lies ruin and death and dinosaurs.”

“Easy, Pepper. Breathe,” Natasha says calmly. “I’ll arrange to have it donated, courtesy of the Stark Foundation. How’s that?”

“Yes. Perfect. Thank you.”

“You all right now?”

“Better. Much better.” Pepper takes another breath. She can do this. She hasn’t been Tony’s assistant for what feels like the last three lifetimes without learning something, after all. And because she knows _all_ the Avengers pretty well by now, she adds, “Oh, and Natasha?”

“Yes, Pepper?”

“Please don’t shoot any of them. They’re idiots, but they’re _our_ idiots.”

Natasha’s sigh of disappointment is profound. “I suppose not,” she says. “Besides, they did find a mastodon. Not many bachelor parties end with a paleontological discovery like that. I’ll let it slide... this time.”


End file.
